


Epidemic

by SunflowerSupreme



Series: Witcher (Books) [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst, Book: Miecz przeznaczenia | Sword of Destiny, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, dandelion gets smallpox because i’m a sucker for angst, geralt really owes her big time for this, yennefer is not amused
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:42:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22123543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunflowerSupreme/pseuds/SunflowerSupreme
Summary: “Why is it,” Yennefer asked, “that you spew about lesser evils and greater goods, but when your pet troubadour is dying, you risk an epidemic?”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: Witcher (Books) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1624276
Comments: 28
Kudos: 367





	Epidemic

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on the bit in The Sword of Destiny where it’s mentioned that Dandelion buried Little Eye after she died of plague. My first thought was “why did he stick around in a plague city?” 
> 
> _Who would have wanted to hear that the Witcher and Little Eye parted and never, ever, saw each other again? About how four years later Little Eye died of the smallpox during an epidemic raging in Vizima? About how he, Dandelion, had carried her out in his arms between corpses being cremated on funeral pyres and had buried her far from the city, in the forest, alone and peaceful._
> 
> So here, Dandelion getting sick. You’re welcome.

Geralt was almost too late.

Smallpox was almost always a death sentence. Since the outbreak had started in Vizima, the city had practically been under quarantine. No one wanted to go in, and it was nearly impossible to go out.

Witchers were immune.

Poets were not.

By the time he’d arrived in Vizima, Dandelion had been taken to one of the sick houses, left in a long line of cots of those expected to die. By a general rule, no one was allowed into the sick house, but Geralt had glared at the guard, flashed his cat eyes, and they’d opened the door.

They’d been less willing to let him leave with the troubadour, but Geralt had lied, told them that Dandelion was already dead, and he merely wished to bury his friend, and they’d let him through. Dandelion had been close enough to dead that they’d believed him.

He put him on Roach and ridden like a man possessed toward Yengerburg. Perhaps he couldn’t save everyone in Vizima, but if he could save just one, it would be enough.

Dandelion worsened as they traveled, staying awake only by the grace of the Witcher potions that Geralt risked feeding him, diluting them heavily before forcing them down the bard’s throat.

Still, Dandelion didn’t wake. He was dead weight, slumped over Roach’s neck, occasionally coughing up spittle. But he didn’t talk, not even when Geralt talked to him.

“You’re a maudlin fool, bard,” he scolded, rubbing the poet’s back as Roach cantered gracefully. “You should have fled the city at the first sign of plague, not waited around to see if the quarantine would be made mandatory.”

Dandelion made no noise, didn’t stir, not even when Geralt tugged his silken hair. “You should be glad you can’t see yourself- you look like an acne-addled teen. You won’t be wooing any ladies with that face, that’s for sure.”

He stopped outside the city, in an abandoned house. There he left Dandelion, wrapping the bard in his cloak and leaving Roach to watch over him. Then he went into the city on foot.

Yennefer’s shop wasn’t at all difficult to find, although small and out of the way, it was notorious. The air around it smelled of herbs, potions, and - most notably - magic.

“Yen!” He didn’t knock, just strode inside, his eyes scanning the room.

“Geralt.” For a moment, she sounded pleased to see him, then her voice changed, becoming stiff with concern, “This isn’t a pleasure visit.”

“Can you cure smallpox?” He strode to where she stood in the back of the shop, scanning her expectantly.

“There’s no known cure for smallpox-”

“I didn’t ask if there was a known cure, Yen, I asked if you could cure it.”

She was quiet for a moment, and with each heartbeat, Geralt was acutely aware that his friend might be breathing his last. Then, “Witchers are immune to smallpox.”

“Poets aren’t.”

Yennefer sighed. “You know I don’t like him.” But she was already gathering her things, grabbing this and that off the walls, tucking them into her satchel, murmuring to herself as she did. “How long?”

“I brought him from Vizima.”

She swore. “Geralt, you could start an outbreak!”

“He could die.”

She shook her head, ushering the Witcher out of the shop and shutting the door behind them. She didn’t lock it, she didn’t need to. No one would touch her things. “Why is it,” she asked, “that you spew about lesser evils and greater goods, but when your pet troubadour is dying, you risk an epidemic?”

Geralt had no defense.

Dandelion’s condition hadn’t changed. He was still sweating and feverish, sprawled on his back on the floor, Geralt’s cloak over him. “Fetch water from the well,” Yennefer said as she knelt beside him, casting a long glance over him. “Make him drink.”

Geralt did as he was told, pulling Dandelion to lean against him, pushing sweat-slicked hair from his face and holding a ladle to his lips. He rubbed the bard’s throat until he swallowed, then would bring more water to his lips.

Yennefer set about mixing her herbs. “I give no promises about the condition of his face when I’m done,” she said.

“Yen-”

“It has nothing to do with my feelings toward him, Geralt,” she promised, grinding ingredients together in her mortar and pestle. “If it were up to me, I’d encase the disease in his cock and remove the offending organ-”

“Yen!” If he laughed, he’d never tell Dandelion.

“But it’s not. I will save him because I am that smart, but - as for his face - well, we shall have to see.”

He’d barely gotten any water into the poet’s mouth, most of it had trickled down his lips, into his shirt and Geralt’s pants. But Yennefer brushed aside the ladle and pressed her mortar to his lips and together they forced the sticky mess down his throat.

“There is a water trough outside.” She said, “Bring it in and fill it with water.”

Geralt left her kneeling on the floor beside Dandelion, murmuring spells and incantations. Were he awake, Dandelion would have delighted in the fact that she removed his ruined shirt, running her fingers over his chest.

He drug the tub inside and filled it, bucket by bucket, from the well. All the while, Yennefer worked, occasionally swearing and cursing, scolding Dandelion for interrupting her business.

Finally, she sat back. “I’ve done all I can.”

“The tub?” Geralt asked.

He half expected Yennefer to crawl in it herself, but she motioned to the bard. “If his fever spikes, place him in the water. Take him out when he grows chilled.”

“You’re leaving?” His voice was more harsh than he’d meant.

“He will either live or he won’t, Geralt. My presence won’t change that-”

“Don’t leave me.” He couldn’t be alone with Dandelion. Not with him so ill- if he died- no, he wouldn’t think about that.

She let out a sigh. “Let me bring us supper,” she said finally.

While she was gone, he undressed the troubadour and placed him in the water, rolling up his own sleeves to keep them as dry as possible. Then he pulled over a stool and waited.

Yennefer announced her return by saying, “I’m only healing him because if he dies, I won’t be able to castrate him for composing the Ballad of the Two Tits.”

“You know he never finished that,” Geralt said softly.

“Only because I threatened him!”

“Not true,” the Witcher said softly. “He grew bored and instead decided to compose a ballad about a butterfly- don’t give me that look, you’ve met him.”

“I’d only believe it if the butterfly bedded a bird.”

“A dragonfly, actually.”

Geralt barely touched the food Yennefer brought, leaving her to sit at the table and eat by herself. Then she sat at the table and watched him in silence.

When Dandelion began to shiver he took him from the tub, laying him on a bedroll Yennefer had brought, and covering him in a blanket.

A short while later, he transferred him back to the tub.

“When did you last sleep?” He’d almost forgotten Yennefer was there and hadn’t noticed when she’d crept up behind him as he sat on the stool

“I’m fine.”

“Rest,” she said. “I’ll watch the bard.”

He finally nodded, only because he knew she’d shout at him otherwise, and stretched out on the other bedroll. Sleep overtook him almost immediately.

* * *

“Geralt wake up.” Yennefer was shaking him. He opened his eyes, blinking wearily. “Control your poet!” she spat, and then was gone, vanishing through the door.

Geralt sat up, looking around the small hut in confusion.

“I only said she ought to join me in the tub,” said a weak voice.

“Dandelion!” Geralt jumped to his feet, rushing across the room to the bard, who was awake, slumped in the water trough.

“I’m cold,” the bard murmured, so Geralt pulled him from the tub, wrapping him in a shirt and rubbing him dry. “She’s gone Geralt.”

“She’s only outside.” He could hear her, complaining to Roach as the mare grazed.

“Little Eye.”

It took a moment for Geralt to remember Dandelion’s poet friend, the one the Witcher had once spent an evening with. His lips drew into a tight line, his chest grew tight and he froze, one hand hovering over Dandelion’s shoulder.

“I buried her,” Dandelion whimpered. “I should have left- but I-I couldn’t leave her to the sick houses.”

“I didn’t know she was there,” the Witcher confessed. He’d known Dandelion was in the city only because he’d dropped him off there before going on a contract. Then he’d heard of the plague and turned and run straight back.

“It happened so suddenly, everyone fell ill and she- oh Geralt- oh it was awful.” Dandelion shivered and Geralt wrapped him in a blanket, then brought him a bit of the stew that Yennefer had brought. He’d put it by the fire to keep it warm before he went bed, and Dandelion allowed him to help him eat, the poet still too weak to hold the bowl.

“I buried her in the woods, with your pearl and her lute- she’d have liked it.” He grabbed Geralt’s wrist suddenly, stopping the Witcher from spooning more stew into his mouth. “Why am I alive if she’s dead?”

Geralt found it hard to look into the poet’s frightened eyes. “Because I was too slow,” he said softly.

“It’s not your fault.”

“And it’s not yours. Now eat, she’d want you to.”

Once he’d fed Dandelion and helped him to drink more water, he wrapped the poet in the blankets and told him to rest. Then he went to find the sorceress.

She was petting Roach.

He’d never known someone to pet a horse angrily, but Yennefer was managing it, dragging her fingers over the mare’s flank with extreme care, while at the same time having the expression of someone who was about to burn down a house.

“I’d say he’s sorry for what he said and that the fever addled him, but, well, he’s Dandelion.”

She shook her head with a snort. “Yes, he’s a lecher and a cad and a womanizer, but somehow he’s your dearest friend.”

“I-”

“Oh I know why,” she said with a smile. “But I don’t have to be happy about it.”

“You know why?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. It was a question he asked himself occasionally if he were honest.

Yennefer smiled. “Because he tells you that you’re human.” She shook her head. “I’m going back to my shop. I’m certain I have a line of customers by now. Don’t let him into the city for a week, at least, just to be certain we don’t have an outbreak.”

Geralt nodded.

“If he grows worse, tell him he can die.” But her face said otherwise, said that if he asked, she’d come back. She would complain about it, but she’d come, if for no other reason than she would sooner exile herself beyond the Edge of the World than watch Geralt bury his dearest friend.

“And no contracts! Don’t you dare leave him, and once he’s better, take him as far from me as you can.”

“Thank you Yen,” he said with a smile.

“About your payment-”

“Yes?”

She grinned, leaned forward, and pressed their lips together. “I’ll collect it later,” she promised softly, grinning up at him.

“Who will I be whipping for you this time?”

But Yennefer only laughed.

Geralt didn’t watch her go, as much as he’d have liked to, instead he stepped back inside the dilapidated house, where Dandelion was stretched out.

“I- I meant to ask- Geralt, tell me truthfully- I can take it: how’s my face?”

He grinned. “You look like a Striga.”

“What?” For someone who had almost died, Dandelion’s reflexes were impressive, sitting up sharply and touching his face.

“Sit down, Dandelion. You look fine. You’ll owe Yennefer a great deal of thanks though.”

“I shall compose her a song!”

“Please don’t.”

“Oh, well, I suppose she’d hate that, wouldn’t she?”

“She would.”

**Author's Note:**

> Yen could totally have filled the tub herself with magic, but she wanted to keep Geralt busy.
> 
> Also, I didn't make up The Ballad of the Two Tits. It's an actual thing and that's why I love Dandelion. I did make up the bit about the butterfly though.


End file.
